Most people don’t realize how much of my transplant journey happens in the car.

Not the procedures. Not the labs. Not the hospital stays. It’s the drive.

The drive to Mayo Clinic is long, quiet, and sometimes heavy. It takes an hour or more on the road. We have found over this journey that the Red Mtn 202 to the 101 is the easiest route to take. Alternatively, the Red Mtn 202 to Gilbert Rd is also an quick option depending on location. Traffic is usually minimal. There is nothing but the hum of the tires, Arizona drivers everywhere (#iykyk) and my thoughts.

I don’t live “down the street” from eithe Mayo location. These aren’t quick five-minute trips. They are commitments—physical, emotional, and logical—and they have become a huge part of this season.

Two Mayo Campuses, One Chapter of My Life

Over this journey, I’ve been seen at both the Mayo Clinic Phoenix location and the Mayo Clinic Shea location.

They are different buildings, different hallways.
However, it is always the same battle, the same purpose.
It is the same prayer tucked inside my chest every time I walk in.

The Drive There: Before

The drive to Mayo is a strange kind of quiet. Sometimes I’m strong. Sometimes I’m tired. Sometimes I’m scared. Sometimes I’m all of these at the same time.

The thoughts hit in waves. I find myself wondering:

• Will this be a quick appointment or another unexpected admission?
• Will today bring answers… or more questions?
• How much longer can my heart hold on?
• How much strength do I have left?

The drive is long enough to think, but not long enough to run from the reality waiting for me on the other end.

Riding With My Dad

For most appointments, my dad goes with me. He goes with me even for those appointments that take over two hours round trip to drive. The ones that last just 5 minutes.

He doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He just shows up.

We’ve shared so many miles together, both the literal and emotional kind.
Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we don’t. Sometimes we joke about the traffic or talk about my kids. Sometimes we sit in silence that says more than words ever could.

When I’m anxious, he grounds me. When I’m exhausted, he carries the conversation. When I’m worried about bad news, he reminds me that whatever it is, I will get through it.

These drives have become their own kind of father-daughter chapter—one I never expected, but one I cherish deeply.

During: The Waiting Rooms, the Hallways, the Unknowns

Once we get there, it becomes a different kind of waiting. Every appointment brings its own mix of emotions: There is hope, fear, relief, frustration, exhaustion, determination, and many, many more.

There are lab days, testing days, EKGs, imaging, evaluations, infusions, procedures I didn’t see coming, and stays I didn’t plan for.

I’ve walked into Mayo for a quick follow-up and walked out days later after being admitted unexpectedly.

Every transplant patient knows that feeling—the bag you didn’t bring but have packed at home, the responsibilities you didn’t plan to rearrange, the breath you didn’t know you were holding.

AftER: The Drive Home

The drive home is where everything settles.

Sometimes I cry.
Sometimes I sleep.
Sometimes I stare out the window just trying to process what I was told.
Sometimes I feel grateful.
Sometimes I feel defeated.

But every time…
I’m reminded that the road back is just as important as the road that got me there. It’s the road where the reality sinks in. Where the “what now?” begins.
Where the faith kicks in. Where the strength rebuilds itself, mile by mile, light by light.

The Scheduling Chaos People Don’t See

Behind every appointment—planned or emergency—is a domino effect.

Every time Mayo calls, every time new symptoms force my hand, every time a procedure comes out of nowhere…

…My entire schedule explodes.

Kids’ practices and games.
Work commitments.
Meetings.
School pickups.
Dinner.
Household responsibilities.

Everything gets rearranged—usually more than once!

This life isn’t a life where you just “fit in” appointments. This is a life where appointments decide everything you do.

And still… somehow… I keep going.

What These Drives Have Become

They are no longer just commutes. They are no longer just appointments.

They’re checkpoints in my fight to live. They’re tasks in the journey toward a new heart. They are reminders of how much life I’m fighting for. They are places where fear and courage meet. Places where hope grows in the deepest, darkest cracks of uncertainty. They are miles traveled, prayers whispered, strength tested, and faith always chosen.

Always, always, always… the beat goes on.